


blow me dry

by crunchrapsupreme



Series: girl scouts, greek gods, and car washes [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, sexual innuendos involving pressure washers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1345282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crunchrapsupreme/pseuds/crunchrapsupreme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean would’ve <i>never</i> guessed in a million goddamned years that the greek god who washed his car two and a half weeks ago would be here right now, speaking filthy things with his fingers shoved knuckle deep in his ass, but here we are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blow me dry

**Author's Note:**

> the promised sequel to [wash me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1170449) ! 
> 
> I recommend you read that fic first because, well, you probably won't have any idea what's going on. also i make a lot of references to that fic so please read that first and then read this one!
> 
> also up over on [my tumblr](http://crunchrapsupreme.tumblr.com/post/80235854753/blow-me-dry-jean-marco-highschool-au)~

It’s two weeks before he even looks at the number again.

He tries to tell himself it’s because he’s been busy. With school, with homework, with Flappy Bird (he’s finally gotten a high score of twelve, which is more than he can say for Connie and every other one of his friends. Except for Eren, whose high score is 11 and if he ends up beating Jean there _will_ be no mercy).  

Anyways, busy. Jean’s been busy, he hasn’t had time to call the number that’s been burned into the back of his mind already. Those ten digits written in neat, blocky strokes on Jean’s forearm that’s long since been washed off in the shower. He applauds himself for at least saving it to his phone before it vanished.

(It took a good few days to completely wash off, and Jean spent those few days happily with his arms crossed at school because god forbid Connie, or shit, _Eren_ , find out he’s acquired someone’s digits.)

His phone feels heavy in his hand, the early morning breeze wafting through his open window as he lies face up on his bed, arm thrown over his face as he heaves a big sigh. Why does he have to be such a wimp when it comes to shit like this? Eren does it all the goddamned time. Well, Jaeger gets rejected more often than not, but still. If _Eren_ has the balls to do it, why can’t Jean?

His mom is out for the day, won’t be back until later tonight, and Connie has work. Armin is hanging out with Eren at the docks and Jean _knows_ that Armin has a thing for Eren, for some godforsaken reason, so Jean didn’t want to ruin their ‘could-be’ date. Fuck, even _Armin_ has more game than him. Jean groans and sits up, scrolling through his contacts until he comes across Marco’s number.

It’s just a fucking phone call. _And_ he even has an excuse! His mud caked tires! Granted, it _did_ rain a few days ago, and a good amount of the mud has flaked off or washed off, but Marco doesn’t have to know that. At least, not until he gets here and sees the scarce remains of dirt beneath Jean’s ancient tires.

Whatever. Jean takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair before pressing ‘call’ and bringing the phone up to his ear. His stomach flips a few times as he listens to the muted ringing, going over what he’s going to say.

 _Hey, it’s Jean, you washed my car a few weeks ago._ Shit, _no_ , what the fuck. Marco probably washed a _ton_ of cars that day.

 _Hi, it’s Jean, you said I could borrow your pressure washer a few weeks ago?_ No, that just makes it sound like Jean’s using him, which, yeah, Marco _did_ offer his pressure washer, but fuck, the car isn’t the _only_ thing Jean wants Marco to help him out with.

The phone beeps in his hand, cuts to voicemail, and Jean swallows, fumbles to hang up, before tossing his phone beside him on the mattress.

He didn’t answer. There. That must be a sign that it wasn’t meant to be, and that Jean can finally delete his number so he can stop staring at it at 3 in the morning with his finger hovering over the call button but never pressing down. Jean briefly thinks he should’ve left a voicemail, because not many people call back a number that didn’t leave a voicemail, but he shakes his head. Nope. The end. Problem solved. It just wasn’t meant -

A yelp escapes his mouth as his phone starts ringing loudly next to him on the bed, shaking the mattress with the vibration, and when Jean hesitantly looks down at the screen, sees _Marco_ flashing on the caller ID, he whines quietly before grabbing his phone, taking a deep breath, and clicking ‘answer’.

“Uh, hello?” So much for being suave, Jean thinks with a wince.

“Hi! I just received a missed call from this number, I’m just calling back to find out if you called a wrong number? This is Marco Bodt, so if you were looking for him, you called the right number!”

Of fucking _course_ Marco would be the kind of guy to call back every fucking unidentified number that calls his phone to make sure they got who they were looking for. Jean almost considers saying _no, it’s okay, I just called a wrong number, no big deal, have a nice day_ , but his brain seems to be a little behind his mouth, because he’s speaking before he even realizes what to say,

“Yeah, hi, um, it’s. My name is Jean. From the - ”

“From the car wash!” Marco interrupts enthusiastically, and Jean blinks in surprise, because he didn’t even _think_ of the fact that maybe, Marco might actually just remember him by his name. Jean stifles a sigh of relief, because this saves him from embarrassingly trying to describe exactly who he is and why he’s calling and shit, why _is_ he calling?

Oh, right. Tires. Mud. Not a date.

“You offered to let me use your pressure washer a few weeks ago?”

Jean hopes it doesn’t sound too sketchy, because it has been about two and a half weeks, and most sane persons would have called Marco by now, or if not, then just have forgotten him completely. Jean has done neither, but he’s trying not to think too much about it, because Marco’s voice over the line is tinny but warm, and Jean breathes out a quiet sigh.

“Yeah, I remember you! Still got that mud caked in your tires, huh?”

Jean flushes and is suddenly glad Marco can’t see him, because his face feels about as red as a fucking tomato. “Um, just a little bit,” and then he swallows, palms getting sweaty because god, he can’t do this, this is _stupid_. “It’s actually not a big deal, ha. I mean, I could probably just - ”

“Are you free this afternoon?”

He almost falls off the bed, but rights his balance last minute, one arm steadying himself on the mattress as he oh-so-eloquently responds with a careful, “Um. Yeah?” It comes off more like a question, and Jean runs a palm down his face as Marco continues,

“I mean, I’m free today so if you wanted to go ahead and get it out of the way, I could bring my pressure washer over take care of it.” Marco pauses, before laughing just slightly. “Or I could just drop it off and you can give it back to me when you’re finished?”

“I don’t know how to use a pressure washer,” Jean blurts out, because his flirting game is obviously incredibly strong right now. He clenches his jaw in embarrassment when Marco chuckles over the line.

“I can teach you.”

Jean swallows, clenching his phone tighter as he says, “I’ll, uh. You got a pen to write down my address?”

When Marco speaks, Jean can hear the grin in his voice. “Yeah. Shoot.”

\--

Jean supposes doing a little research on how to use a pressure washer would’ve been helpful in not embarrassing himself, especially when he glances up from his seat on the front porch to see Marco lugging something that looks like an intimidating lawn mower out of his trunk.

Marco looks up and waves at him briefly before going back to wiggling the thing out of his car. When he finally frees the machine, he slams his trunk closed and wheels the thing up Jean’s driveway, grinning in a way that should be illegal.

Jean swallows, wipes his palms on his shorts before standing up and heading over to his car parked in the driveway. He tell himself he forgot what Marco looked like in the two and a half weeks he hadn’t seen him, but that would be a lie because looking at him now, Jean knows he remembers every fucking detail of this boy.

Marco must see some sort of hesitance on his face, and his grin widens as he motions Jean closer. “Don’t worry, it’s super easy. Do you have a garden hose?”

Jean nods and walks around to the side of his house, quickly gathering the hose and making sure it’s screwed it before walking back to the driveway where Marco is bent over the pressure washer, fiddling with the motor, and Jean tries _really hard_ not to look at his ass. He honestly tries.

Marco looks up when Jean approaches, and he smiles again before taking the hose and screwing it up to the pressure washer. “Okay, here, you can try it first. Be careful though, it’s called a pressure washer for a reason.”

His voice is light and teasing, and Jean rolls his eyes to hide his nervousness. “I’ll be fine.”

Marco just smirks again before pulling the string to start the motor, and Jean bites his lip as he grips the wand near the base where the release is, aiming the wand at his front tire. He’s not sure what he was expecting when he pulled the trigger - a nice gentle flow of water? a steady but controlled stream? - either way, he’s definitely not expecting fucking _Poseidon’s ejaculation_ to spew from the tip.

The jet of water hits the side of his car, spraying both him and Marco with water from the repel, and the force of the stream causes Jean to stumble back on his feet. Marco is already behind him, and he grabs Jean’s biceps to steady him.

“Woah, careful,” Marco says as Jean quickly lets go of the trigger.

Jean lets out a deep breath, not realizing he was holding it, and when Marco laughs again, Jean can feel it through his body because his back is now pressed against Marco’s chest. Jean quickly spins around, face flushing red and apologies spilling from his lips,

“Ah, shit, sorry, I’ve never used one of these before,” Jean mumbles out, rubbing the back of his neck, and fuck, why is this guy making him so goddamned nervous?

“It’s fine,” Marco says with a small quirk of his lips, and then he’s removing his shirt with a quick flurry of movement. “Sprayed us pretty good with the backlash, though.”

And suddenly Jean is taken back to two weeks ago, where this very body was pressed against his car window, wet and glistening, and there’s just as many freckles as he remembers; the flurry of them heavily dotted across his shoulders, the few scattered below his ribs and down to the ‘v’ of his hips, the two stray freckles near his belly button.

Jean blinks quickly before looking down at his own shirt, half soaked and clinging to his torso.

 _Fuck it_ , he thinks to himself, biting his lip determinedly before removing his own shirt. The sun feels warm against his skin, and he runs a hand through his hair again, probably making it stick up in a million different angles but at the moment, that’s the last thing he’s thinking about.

“C’mon,” Marco says, motioning him back over. “I’ll show you how to hold the wand.”

Jean refrains from letting his mind go to the gutter on that, instead nodding silently and taking the wand from Marco’s hand, turning back towards the car, and when Marco sidles up behind him, so close that Jean can feel the body heat seeping into his back, he tries not to hold his breath lest he _actually_ pass out.

“You were holding the wand at the base,” Marco says, and his voice is steady in his ear, breath tickling his skin. “Try holding one hand at the base, but the other hand more towards the middle.”

Jean follows his instructions, albeit a little shakily, sliding one hand up the wand so it’s not so near the base.

“A little further,” Marco instructs, and then he’s wrapping a hand around Jean’s, sliding it further up the wand until it’s at an acceptable position. Jean inhales sharply, surprised, but Marco’s fingers are warm clasped around his own, and Jean finds that he doesn’t really want to let go.

“Okay, you can go ahead and pull the trigger,” Marco says, and then, almost as an after thought, he adds a quiet, “I've got you.”

Jean tries to stay calm, tries to steady his heartbeat that’s now beating erratically against his ribcage, and when he pulls the trigger the pressure makes him jerk, but Marco is pressing against his back to keep him steady, hand still clasped around the wand with his own. It’s surprisingly easier like this, and Jean aims the wand at his tires, watching as the mud washes away and drains down the driveway.

Jean jumps slightly when he feels Marco’s free hand grip his hip, rough calloused fingers a surprising contrast against his skin, and when he shivers, Marco must feel it because he’s pressing even closer, aligning their hips, and fuck, Jean’s whole back is skin-on-skin in contact with Marco’s own body, the very body that he’s had at _least_ six wet dreams about in the past two and a half weeks.

The steady jet of water mixed with the motor is loud, but Jean can hear Marco breathing quietly into his ear, and Jean’s glad that Marco is behind him and not in front because his shorts are already feeling a little tighter, fuck, _fuck_ what if Marco sees, and gets freaked out? Fuck, what if -

Jean yelps when he feels a very, _very_ obvious thrust against his ass, and there’s no way he could ever mistake a boner. He drops the pressure washer in shock, but Marco grabs it before it hits the concrete, saying quietly in Jean’s ear,

“That’s expensive. Don’t want it to break, yeah?”

Jean just nods wordlessly as Marco steps back, setting the wand onto the ground carefully and killing the motor before looking back up and smiling.

Jean blinks. “Um. We only got one tire clean, are we - ”

And then Marco is pressing him against the side of his car, wet and slippery but so, so warm. Jean inhales sharply once again in surprise, glancing up at Marco, and the taller teen uses one hand to grab Jean’s thigh, hiking it up slightly so he can rub their arousals together.

Jean lets out a surprised groan, gripping Marco’s shoulder with one hand and splaying the other against his ribcage, fingers stretching out to touch the stray freckles dotting his skin, and Marco arches his back down until his lips are grazing Jean’s ear.

“Is…. is this okay?” Marco breathes out, and it’s the first time today that he’s given off anything other than pure confidence and control. He sounds eager, but hesitant, and god how can anyone be literally so _perfect_? Jean honestly doesn’t fucking get it.

So instead of words, he just nods quickly, once, twice, and then he’s winding his arms around Marco’s shoulders, rolling his hips forward and reveling in the quiet gasp Marco lets out against his neck.

“Yeah,” Jean manages, voice cracking slightly when Marco slides a hand down to grab his ass, pressing them together more harshly, hips moving in opposing sync. “Just - we’re in the middle of my f-fucking _driveway_ , fuck.”

Marco grins, stays silent, and Jean doesn’t notice a hand slipping behind him to pop open the car door until he’s tumbling backwards onto the leather seats. He squeaks when Marco crawls up between his legs, stopping at the button on his shorts, and when he locks eyes with Jean, the shorter teen breathes out quietly, eyes bright and eager.

“Better?” Marco asks, fingers fumbling with Jean’s shorts before tugging them down, boxers and all, and tossing them onto the floor of the car. Now completely nude, Jean feels his face heat up, but he doesn’t have much time to think about it because soon a wet heat is encircling his cock, and when he glances down, sees Marco hollowing his cheeks while gripping a thigh with one hand, Jean just about sees stars.

“ _Marco_ ,” Jean gets out, tossing an arm over his face and trying not to thrust his hips up. Marco pulls off with a wet ‘pop’, and Jean has his eyes closed, so when a spit-slicked finger prods at his entrance, Jean gasps loudly and lets his thighs open wider. “Fuck, _yea_.”

“Good?” Marco asks, licking up Jean’s cock again before squeezing in a second finger, twisting them in tandem until they find Jean’s prostate, causing the other teen to gasp and arch his back in pleasure, arm still tossed over his eyes.

“C’mon, lemme see your face,” Marco says, moving his fingers faster, pressing a kiss right below Jean’s bellybutton. “Wanna see what I’m doing to you. How good I’m making you feel.”

Jean would’ve never guessed in a million goddamned years that the greek god who washed his car two and a half weeks ago would be here right now, speaking filthy things with his fingers shoved knuckle deep in his ass, but here we are. Jean counts his lucky stars (or, at least the stars behind his eyelids whenever he feels Marco rub against his prostate again. Those stars are pretty nice too).

“M’gonna…. Marco, _Marco_ , _f-fuck_!”

And then the pressure is gone, fingers removed from his ass, and Jean blinks open his eyes desperately, the brink of orgasm literally just a stroke away.

“I’m going to punch you in the _face_ ,” Jean whines, hair damp with sweat and body still tightly strung, unreleased.

“Shh,” Marco says, crawling up until he’s looming over Jean, and when he leans down to press their lips together, soft and warm, Jean forgets all about being mad at him, because kissing Marco is electric, tiny sparks pricking down his spine, electrifying the bones and turning his blood into sweet, sweet wine. Kissing Marco is soft but persistent, a heavy weight on his chest, sinking into his muscle and through his ribcage right into his heart, and the pressure is large, almost suffocating. Jean feels light headed, feels like he might just float away, and when he winds his arms around around Marco’s shoulders, Marco makes an encouraging noise against his mouth.

Kissing Marco is _perfect_.

And then Marco is fumbling open his own shorts, tugging out his dick, flushed and hard, before pulling away to lick a wet stripe up his palm. Jean pants softly, eyes wide and glazed over as he stares up at Marco, and when Marco grabs both of their cocks in his hand, rubbing them together and tugging them persistently, Jean arches his back with a broken moan.

“Yeah, just like that,” Marco whispers against his cheek, and Jean can do nothing but whine quietly, fingers digging tiny welts into Marco’s skin.

When he finally comes, it splashes up both of their chests, and Jean’s mouth falls open on a silent cry, eyes wide and dilated, and Marco buries his face in Jean’s neck as he uses Jean’s come to slick his own cock, quickly finishing himself off with a heavy shudder, a quiet, “ _Jean_ ,” falling from his lips.

It’s quiet, just the panting breaths of two teenage boys, and the air smells heavily of filth, strong and pungent and strangely satisfying. Marco is still buried in Jean’s neck, holding himself up with an arm as to not squish Jean beneath his weight. Jean smiles, small and careful, before hesitantly bringing a hand up to card shaky fingers through Marco’s sweat damp hair.

Marco hums happily against his skin, says, “You have a nice orgasm face.”

Jean blushes and flicks Marco in the ear. “Shut up, girl scout.”

Marco just laughs, finally pulling back before making a face at the mess they’ve made. Jean rolls his eyes, gives a shy smile before nodding towards his house. “Wanna go clean up?”

“What about your tires? They’re still dirty.” Marco asks, eyes shining brightly in the late afternoon sun.

“ _I’m_ also dirty now,” Jean points out, cheeks turning pink, but he keeps his head up determinedly. “And it _is_ your fault. I expect you to take full responsibility for this mess, girl scout.”

Marco just smiles, tossing Jean’s shorts at him before buttoning up his own, and once they are both fully dressed, Marco grabs Jean by the hands and tugs them both out of the car, already heading towards the front door as he tosses a grin over his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to clean up _very_ thoroughly.”


End file.
